The Beginning
by reenka
Summary: In the beginning and after the end, things are never what they seem. (HD)


_Disclaimer_: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. Universe not mine, and I don't want it, either.

_Author notes_: For Amalin. H/D is the classic "not what it seems" relationship in my mind, what can I say. Much love

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- _The Beginning_.

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In the end, it was his right to watch him. His responsibility, in fact.

They had captured him, and he'd had the honor of having had some very small part to play in all of that. His role in the recent events didn't content Draco, but he had to try not to think about that. One way or another, he had what he wanted. Even if the great Harry Potter wasn't exactly at _his_ mercy, it had to be enough.

It had to be, though Potter wasn't awake to hear Draco's taunts and watch his sneers, unable to witness Draco's newly improved hexing skills. It gave Draco little satisfaction to hex someone who wasn't going to be able to feel it to their full capacity. Of course, he wasn't allowed to seriously harm Potter. No, that wasn't his job.

Draco didn't have a job to do here, not precisely, but he'd been allowed to sit and watch after a protracted period of begging and pleading and boasting of his improved skills. Finally, he'd said he'd follow them here, and his father had rolled his eyes and given in. He always did, in the end; Draco counted on that.

More to the point, Draco was allowed to sit in the uncomfortable chair by Potter's bedside, watching him sleep. He didn't even have the luxury of imagining Potter was dead. Somewhat predictably to Draco's mind, all his fantasies shriveled one by one as he sat there, until he couldn't think or dream; couldn't do anything but _observe_.

He hated having to look at Potter's face.

The feeling was almost tangible to him, like a buzzing tingle along his nerves. It made him edgier with every passing second.

If there had been flies in the room, Draco was sure he'd have killed every single one with some relish. He wasn't supposed to open the window, not even to get the breath of fresh air he so desperately needed. Sooner or later, Draco was sure he'd open the bloody window, and to hell with the dire consequences his father had implied.

He was nearly beside himself with the need to _move_. Potter wasn't moving, and Draco was getting to the point where he could easily imagine opening a single closed eye with one of his fingertips, peeling the eyelid back if only to see those unfocused pupils. It wasn't as if he was getting any other sources of entertainment in the immediate future.

Sometimes Potter sighed, making Draco jerk, his heart always racing with a fierce shot of adrenaline, but Sleeping Beauty wasn't about to wake. He knew that. The potion was very effective, and Draco reassured himself plenty of times that Potter wasn't superhuman, no matter how the Boy Who Still Lived would have liked to believe so.

More often, Potter frowned, his mouth twitching in displeasure, his hands fisting in the sheets. Draco watched those fingers claw at the thin cotton, unable to look away. Potter's nails were getting longer already, though that might have been his overactive imagination. Draco had only spent two days and one night like this, but it was more than long enough, he thought.

Once or twice, Potter whimpered, his neck arching back on the pillow and the veins standing out, harsh and blue against his winter-pale skin. Draco watched the heartbeat pulse in those veins, becoming hypnotized right as Potter's corded muscles relaxed and he fell back, his breathing even. Draco exhaled and shut his eyes, counting to ten. This was a much more difficult job than anyone knew.

His mother used to say that Draco looked beautiful in his sleep; like an angel. So innocent and untouched, she'd tell him, brushing his hair back. Draco would draw away, growing uncomfortable. That had been when he'd let his mother touch him freely.

Potter was far from innocent. The motionless, frozen statue he'd been earlier had disappeared, to be replaced by a new source of pure frustration.

Potter was looked like he was still living his life, reacting as strongly to things unseen as he might have were he awake. Draco couldn't imagine he'd ever really _slept_. People said Harry Potter never gave up, but Draco thought it was more like Potter didn't know when to stop. He never did have any idea what was good for him.

He supposed he should be entertained with the faces Potter was making. Most of them were varying levels of discomfort or distress. Potter looked about as restless and miserable as Draco felt, though he couldn't have shared Draco's own source of misery.

More than anything, Draco felt painfully bored.

There was nothing to do in the whole god-forsaken house except watch Potter, and he thought he might be going insane from the strain of it. That must be why he was considering _doing_ things, things that he'd _Obliviate_ out of existence if he were that confident in his command of the spell. Instead, he chose to pretend the thoughts didn't exist, just as he would have liked to be able to pretend that _Potter_ didn't exist.

With a small sigh of defeat, Draco lifted a cold hand, placing it on top of Potter's.

Potter didn't move. Draco shivered, feeling a tiny, fierce trickle of relief smooth along his raw nerves. It was a bit like having an ice-pack placed against his forehead all of a sudden. It felt almost... soothing, though that's a sensation Draco wasn't going to concentrate on if he could help it.

Draco held his breath, still expecting some reaction; any reaction.

For once, there was nothing, only the same deep, even breathing Potter had in those intermittent quiet periods. His dark brows were unfurrowed, his hands loose on top of the covers. He must be having pleasant dreams again, Draco thought resentfully.

Draco's hand twitched as it lay there, splayed awkwardly on Potter's larger one. Potter had grown while Draco hadn't, which was one of the many, many things Draco wished he could take and shove where it really hurt. It just wasn't _fair_. None of it ever was, of course.

He could feel Potter's heat beginning to send tingles down the slightly chilled tips of his fingers, and he shuddered.

"God," he breathed, his other hand clenching at his lap. What was he _doing_? Why did Potter have to be so warm when Draco himself was halfway freezing by now, heating spell be damned?

He'd liked to think that if given the opportunity, he'd know what to do. He'd know how to hurt Potter the best way, in the way that would really _hurt_. A way that Potter wouldn't be able to shrug off no matter what. He knew how to make Potter play dirty. He'd make him beg for it; whatever Draco wanted. In this fantasy, Potter always found out how it felt to be on the other side.

Draco could see the late afternoon sunlight illuminating Potter's skin through slitted eyes, and it looked like Potter had a halo, just like everyone bloody thought he did.

He was so bitter he could _taste_ it, and this was supposed to be the home stretch to victory. It was a matter of days, if not hours, before the Dark Lord arrived, his gift waiting for him; his father assured him of that. Draco should finally feel like he was on top of the world, and all he could think of to do was curl his fingers around Potter's limp hand, squeezing tighter and tighter until he felt bones digging into his skin.

Little pulses of heat shot through him, setting his cheeks aflame. At least no one was there to witness his final defeat, he thought morosely. Potter was dead to the world, and his father was out fighting the good fight. Draco would have just been in the way. He hadn't done as well as he should've on his OWLs, and with the whole school united against the remaining Slytherins, his status dipped all the way down to starkly nonexistent. Draco was an embarrassment, maybe even a liability, though his father had to make do because he had no choice. Because he was a Malfoy.

By rights, he should be wrapping his hands around the other's throat and squeezing. If he was half the man his father was, or a quarter of the man his father had wanted-- no, needed-- him to be, that's what he would've been doing, instead of... this.

The more he thought about having Potter in his power, the more he wanted him to bloody wake up and stop this charade.

"Potter," he croaked, rubbing his thumb viciously against Potter's warm flesh. He wanted _something_. And at that moment it didn't matter if he'd wanted it for as long as he could remember or if it was just that second. For that one second, he wanted--

"Draco," his father said briskly, walking through the door. Draco jerked his arm back, fumbling in his hurry to get away and face his father as soon as possible.

"Father!" he cried, shoving his hands in his pockets and doing his desperate best to school his expression. "You're early!" He wished he could slap himself for that. It was _not_ what he should've been saying.

"Never mind that," Lucius said. "What's his status?"

"Same," Draco mumbled sullenly, mood doing a typical turnabout in under ten seconds. "Don't know why I can't be out there. Helping you. I can--"

"I thought we'd gone over this already. Or do you wish to be placed back at Hogwarts, where you might actually be of some use to either me or yourself?"

"No...."

"Glad we have that settled, then," his father drawled. "Now. Our-- guests will be arriving shortly, so you'd best make yourself scarce, is that understood?"

"Yes...." Draco made a face. It wasn't like he hadn't expected this.

"Yes--?"

"Yes, _Sir_," Draco enunciated, daring to put a small measure of rebellion into his tone, knowing his father couldn't be bothered to do this with him right now.

He was right.

"Good. Run along, then," Lucius said, no longer looking at him.

Draco walked out the door without meeting his father's eyes. He knew it wasn't the kind of visit that got him invited to dinner. He also knew better than to wish his father luck or ask him what he should expect. Mostly, he knew better than to give any sign of the curl of sinking fear in his belly. He was a Malfoy, and Malfoys didn't run: they planned ahead. He'd be of no use to anyone, rushing in to save his father-- or worse, Voldemort-- who'd never needed saving, especially from the likes of Harry Potter.

He could be back-up, he thought. Just in case.... Draco squelched that thought like a tiny, buzzing fly.

Everything was going to be fine, of course. They were as good as there.

Well, at least he got here before I did something I'd never live down, Draco thought sullenly, going to the standard cellar refuge. This wasn't even their mansion, so there was nothing of interest in this particular cellar except lots of darkness and dirt and sudden sounds to slowly drive him yet more insane. But that was nothing new, was it. And it was only for a little bit. They still hadn't had dinner, he thought reasonably. He'd get called up for dinner.

Five hours had passed according to Draco's watch, and no one had come for him. He couldn't hear a thing, either, since the cellar had been spelled to be soundproof and locator-spell-proof and a dozen other things Draco supposed went standard in all emergency safehouses. This knowledge didn't make him feel any better, however.

He pressed the tiny notch that let him read the specially spelled little clock face. It was always correct. No amount of magical interference could dampen its accuracy, the ad-copy went. A Malfoy would never settle for less than the very best, after all.

A Malfoy would never settle; or at least, that was how it was supposed to be. There was always fudge room in any precept; a way to get what you wanted without breaking any rules, if you were smart. Though none of it mattered if you were unlucky enough to go up against the forces of sheer arrogant stupidity, he'd discovered.

Having lived to be seventeen years old, Draco had the occasion to realize that few things, if any, really turned out how they were supposed to be, and there was nothing he could do about it. That was the lesson he'd learned, these past few years. There was simply nothing he, Draco Malfoy, could possibly do; nothing that _mattered_.

A lost little part of him wanted to cry a bit, but all that came out was a hitching half-hearted breath. He was always going to feel like he'd lost, because even when he was winning, he himself was lost.

Even now, when everything was going to plan at last... of course all he could think was how Father had interrupted him before he could.... Before he could even find out what it was he wanted.

Afterwards, Draco wouldn't be able to recall whether he'd actually cried or if he'd just accepted defeat without further ado. It was ridiculously easy, in the stifling, unrelenting confinement of the dark cellar. To give in felt like the only option somehow. It wasn't his fault. It had always been _their_ fault, all of it....

Draco thought he might have fallen asleep there in the single usable armchair, curling up into a little ball, his face buried in the dusty fabric. He'd woken up because he heard a sound that wasn't the mice in the corners or the sigh of old wood creaking as the house itself shifted. His dreams, if he'd had any, left him in a rush, and Draco had to blink several times before he remembered where and who he was, and why he had that awful cramp in his lower back.

It was barely a sound: just a far off vibration, like a slowly approaching thunderstorm. Draco froze, squeezing his knees together. He couldn't think. He could only stare at the ceiling, irrationally expecting it to cave in. It couldn't be shaking, could it? There was no way the wards would fail. That was impossible, he knew that, but he didn't want to be watching when it happened, and he couldn't look away. If he stared hard enough, he wouldn't have to think about dying, and more importantly, he was too distracted to scream. He wouldn't, no matter what happened. He'd decided that almost immediately.

After endless seconds of sheer terror, Draco gave a shrill squeak and tumbled to the ground, scrabbling back into a corner with his hands, getting his new robes filthy in the process.

If he let himself think, his imagination would have been working overtime, but thankfully there were no coherent thoughts to be found. The thunderous rumbling wasn't getting any closer, but neither was it getting any less ominous. Time stretched impossibly on, and Draco remained completely poised at the center, unable to move or breathe or swallow. Distantly, he noticed some flakes of paint peel off the ceiling as he watched. He blinked, and it was as if nothing had happened. Nothing at all.

Maybe he'd imagined it. Maybe this has all been a long, long nightmare. Maybe there was no Voldemort, no Potter, no life-and-death confrontation upstairs, no stupid Muggle-loving Headmaster and no reason to wish his father was with him right now.

The pain in his lower back felt all too real, however.

Draco wrapped his arms around his knees, burying his chin between them. He wanted to go home. More than anything, Draco wished he could take it all back and go home. He knew he could be what his father wanted if he really tried. He knew he could. His father wouldn't be whimpering in the corner like a beaten dog. His father would make him get up with a look. A word.

'Get up,' he'd say, his voice brooking no argument. _Get up_. And Draco would get up, even with his knees threatening to buckle, even if he shook all over. _Come here_, he'd say, and Draco would walk forward, no matter how hard it was.

He was just a coward, and his father had known it. His father had just wanted to keep him safe.

"Father," Draco whispered. He'd never felt so profoundly alone before. He was trapped here. He knew no one would come for him. Who would care? "Sorry.... I'm so sorry...." His words were noiseless, muttered into the damp fabric of his robes.

That was how Potter found him, in the end.

He'd had no chance to regain his equilibrium, because the next thing he knew, there was something-- someone-- moving down the stairs. Draco didn't want to know what it implied about the wards he'd been behind. What it implied about their breaking. He knew he'd have no choice but to know very shortly.

Draco was fully alert in an instant, his mouth dry and his fingernails digging futilely into his palms to keep them from shaking. This was it, he knew, without actually knowing what it was. The reasonable answer would have been "my father", but Draco was certain it wasn't him.

"Malfoy," came the weary voice, its owner shrouded in darkness. "So there you are."

Draco's breath caught, heart constricting in his chest too tightly to allow him to speak for a few seconds... and then it started up again, just as if it were still thirty seconds ago, before the unthinkable happened.

"What's the meaning of this, Potter?" Draco's voice was on the verge of breaking, ahd he hated himself for shrinking further into the corner, but he really couldn't help it because there was a sob lodged somewhere in his throat and one wrong move would set it free. "Going to finish the job, eh?" He had to get up. He had to-- right now. There was no other choice.

Draco got up and took a single, faltering step forward.

He didn't know where the nerve had come from. Possibly, getting a glimpse of Potter's hateful visage was enough. It always had been before.

Potter sighed. "What job? Just come out and we can apparate back to Hogsmeade and--" Potter didn't finish, but Draco understood. "I don't actually have to ask, by the way."

"So what is it then? A free pardon for the useless sons of dead Death Eaters?" he snarled. Talking wasn't very hard, it seemed. It was almost like the words were ripped from his throat by virtue of Potter's mere presence. He wouldn't surrender to him. Maybe to anyone else, but not to him.

Potter's face was immobile, completely closed off. Draco felt like he was hitting a brick wall after a dive, looking at him.

He's not asleep anymore, Draco thought disjointedly. There was the difference. Potter had looked more alive back then. More-- human, maybe. It was strange, then, that Draco was beyond fear. Or maybe it was a bit of luck, after all.

"Why are you asking _me_?" Potter snapped. Ahh, signs of life. "All I want is to get out of here. You have any problem with that, I'll call Dumbledore, so--"

Draco watched him, noticing the way Potter's eyes were bloodshot and the way his fingers were clenching his wand tightly to his side, though that grip wasn't enough to stop the minute shaking. He looked like hell, but one could almost miss it if they weren't looking right. He could almost smile, knowing that. It was power, of a sort, wasn't it? Know your enemy, wasn't that what they said? Even if Potter couldn't be bothered being Draco's enemy these days, Draco didn't need that reciprocity, did he? No, what he needed was actually quite simple, and in a way, he already had it.

Watching Potter give him that deceptively steady look, Draco thought he had more than enough to start with.

He straightened as far as he could, trying to draw himself up to be at least as tall as Potter, even though he had a good four inches to make up for. He wasn't going to let Potter know he knew it was basically over; that much, he could do. All he needed was time to plan ahead.

Slowly, Draco sneered, the expression stiff and difficult to make at first, but strengthening at the tiny twitch in the corner of Potter's eye.

"Lead on, Potty," he drawled, gesturing with one slender arm. "Out into the light, all that rubbish."

Potter turned around, his back straighter than before. "You don't fool me, Malfoy," he said in a familiar clipped tone. "You never will."

"Counting on it, Potter," Draco murmured, walking to catch up.


End file.
